


Bless Me Father

by nosmokingpistol



Series: Marcus: The Chronicles of a Young Exorcist [2]
Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Discussion Of Murder, Discussion of Rape, Drunken Confessions, Gen, Roman Catholicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 08:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13760355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosmokingpistol/pseuds/nosmokingpistol
Summary: Young Marcus Keane is going to college in the nearby town, and he finds that it offers not only new challenges, but new temptations as well. Sometimes his emotions get the better of him, and he must relate new sins in the confessional -- sins that are more serious as the years go by.





	Bless Me Father

Year One

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Marcus Keane knelt in the confessional, soaked from the cloudburst that had dogged him as he pedaled back from Saint Alban’s College.  He had stayed late at the chemistry lab working on his first year project and had lost track of time, nearly missing the confession hours completely. “It has been one week since my last confession.” As he crossed himself the rain water that had collected in the turned up sleeves of his jacket  ran out onto the floor.

A tired voice that sounded like Father Martin answered from the other side of the screen. “And what sins have you to  – is something dripping over there, Marcus?”

“Yes, Father. I got caught in the rain.”

The old priest sighed. “Right then, damaging church property. After your Act of Contrition say the Our Father and three Hail Marys.  And clean up your mess!”

“What about my other sin, Father?

“There’s more?”  

Marcus squirmed, his soaked trousers catching on the worn embroidered kneeler. “I willfully damaged a library book, and I’ve not made restitution.” He heard the priest sigh again and anticipated the next question. “It’s an art book, one of those big thick ones. It’s all about El Greco. You’d think he was Spanish but he was born in Crete and --”

“I’m familiar with El Greco, Marcus. How was it damaged?” Marcus thought he heard the sound of a metal flask bumping against the wooden stall, but discounted it.

“Well we’ve been studying the saints in my theology class, and their representation in paintings down through the ages, and how it reflects the piety of the time. By the way, did you know Saint Margaret was an actual queen, Father?”  Marcus heard a soft gulping noise, and the smell of whiskey drifted through the screen.

The old priest’s reply sounded as if it were said through clenched teeth. “Of course I know she was a queen. Now please get to the point of your confession, Marcus, or there shall be a penance such as the world has never known.”

“I may have removed a page, Father. It’s a beautiful picture, and it’s so detailed. It’s a great source of inspiration to me.” Marcus heard another gulp from the other side of the box and continued. “I used a razor knife from the lab, you can’t tell there was ever a page there, so it’s really not defaced or damaged, it’s more of an alteration.” Marcus knew he was babbling and got down to the business end. “I can’t afford to pay for the book.”

“I see.” Father Martin’s jaw seemed much more relaxed.  “And, uhm… which saint has inspired you to commit this sin?”

“Saint Sebastian, sir.” If Marcus hadn’t known better he would have sworn he heard a stifled giggle. He could vaguely see the man wiping his eyes through the confessional screen.

“Well, of course it is, it’s always the pretty one, innit?” Father Martin mumbled to himself.  

“What, Father? I couldn’t hear.”

“I said ‘I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’  For your penance you will say your Act of Contrition, two Our Fathers and four Hail Marys. You will also confess to your professor and let him decide how you will make restitution.”

“Yes, Father.” As he began his Act of Contrition the smell of whiskey wafted through the screen once again.

Year Two

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Marcus knelt in the confessional and crossed himself quickly. “It has been one week since my last confession.” He peeled off his sweater and flapped his arms, trying to dry the perspiration that had left large rings at his underarms.

“What sins have you to confess, Marcus?”

Marcus felt some relief. Father Samuel was one of the younger priests and they had formed a casual friendship. He had dreaded the thought of confessing this particular sin to one of the stodgy older clergy. 

“I have committed the sin of -- ”

“Excuse me Marcus, sorry, but is there a dead mouse over there? Maybe someone left some French cheese behind or something?”

Marcus looked around and saw nothing. “No, Father. Not a thing. As I was saying --”

“Only there’s an awful smell, it seems to be coming from over there!”

Marcus heaved a deep sigh, ceased the flapping of his arms and slumped. “It’s me, Father Samuel.”

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. Step in some manure on the road? Beans on toast for tea?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you, I committed the sin of lust. At least I think it was lust. Anyway, it made me sweat different, like what we learned in biology. The nervous sweat made by them apocrine glands. The watery sweat, you know, the watery kind from runnin’,  that kind ain’t so bad, but I’ve been carryin’ this stink for two hours, ever since I sinned.” Marcus swiped at his nose and shook his head. “If I did sin. Like I said, I ain’t sure.”

Father Samuel knew Marcus well enough to recognize that when he dipped deeply into his childhood patois he was either terribly frightened or terribly ashamed.  “It’s okay, Marcus, calm down. Whatever you’ve done can be forgiven if you’re truly repentant. Why don’t you tell me what happened. Just take a deep breath first, and go slowly.”

Marcus did as instructed and when he spoke he was much calmer. “I was out on the green, with my lunch, and I was writing some notes for my Special Topics class – I chose Saint Sebastian  and the Praetorian Guards – and this girl Angela came over and sat down. No by your leave or anything, she just sat down and started talking!”

“Did she make you nervous?”

“No. I know her, we’ve been in classes together last year and this, but it’s not like we’re real close friends or anything.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno. I mean, she’s nice and all, but I’ve told her I’m going to seminary. She’d know I won’t take an interest in her.”

Father Samuel considered his words carefully. “Marcus, you’re not a priest, you’re not even in seminary yet.  When you are you’ll find that we’re encouraged to develop healthy friendships with people of both sexes. It’s a part of life, and nurturing to our souls to give and accept friendship. You can love other people very deeply without having sexual acts with them.”

“Yeah, but this was different. Today she touched me.” He practically whispered his reply.

“Where did Angela touch you?”

“On the green, where I was sittin’.  I told ya!”

“I mean on your body, Marcus. Did she touch you in a private place?”

Marcus groaned. “She thanked me for helpin’ her with her Social Ethics paper, and she told me I was nice, and that she liked my smile, and then she put her hand on my leg -- _above the knee --_ and asked me to the second year dance on Saturday night!”

“Did you say yes?”

“I… we… I…” Marcus sputtered, scandalized. “I said it was lovely of her to ask, but I was unable to attend due to a church commitment. And then,” he blurted, “she just kept her hand right there on my thigh and she was still talking about the dance and she smelled like the roses in the arbor by the Sister House and that’s when I lusted. My body definitely reacted in a lustful way.”

“You have no commitment here Saturday night, you told me you were going to read. Lying is a sin. Having a spontaneous physical response to an attractive woman who is behaving in a flirtatious manner is simple biology. It’s pheromones and hormones, nothing more. I’m sure you’ve had the same thing happen as you wake, or in a dream. All men have, Marcus.”

“Well yeah, but this was in public! On the green! I had to put my notebook on my lap to cover myself! And her lips were so red and so plump and she had on this pink jumper and like I said she smelled like roses. Just thinkin’ about her I’m feeling like -- aw, here we go, I’m sweatin’ again.”

Father Samuel smiled to himself. Marcus had been so cloistered all his life that until he began college he had never been in social contact with women other than the aging sisters of the parish, or the cruel matrons at the boys home. Come to think of it, his contact with men his own age was limited as well. He had also tended to use his pathway to priesthood as an excuse to keep himself separate at Saint Alban’s.

“Tell you what, Marcus. Instead of a date with Angela on Saturday night, you have a date with me. We’re going to sit in the lounge by the fire, sip some of Sister Agnes’ famous lemonade, and talk about all of this for as long as it takes. It’s important, before you take your vows, to become a social animal. Your ability to understand and minister to your fellow humans depends on it. Your future happiness depends on it.”

“Okay, yeah. Thank you Father.”

“I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. For the sin of lying you will do your Act of Contrition, the Our Father, and one Hail Mary. Oh, and Marcus?”

“Yes, Father Samuel?”

“Get yourself some deodorant, eh?”

“Yes, Father Samuel.”

 

Year Three

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Marcus crossed himself and balanced against the sill under the screen. “It has been one week since my last confession.” He groaned and closed his eyes against what little light there was inside the confessional booth.

Father Theodore heard Marcus groan, and was concerned. “Marcus! Are you injured?”

“No, Father. I have an over… no, sorry… I’m hung over.” He groaned again as a wave of nausea roiled his belly. It was barely dawn, well before the Saturday Lauds. He had emptied his stomach twice on the way to the church. The rhododendrons in the Rectory garden would never be the same. “Last night I got sloshed. Legless. Pished to the four winds!”

“Marcus, control yourself! This is a grave matter. Are you aware that this could be considered a mortal sin?”

Marcus was aware that there still might be some alcohol in his system. The sharp smell of juniper as he belched loudly confirmed it. He belched again just to be sure. It occurred to him that he’d lost some of his inhibitions previous night, and he began to weep. “Oh my God I’m going to hell!” he cried out, loudly enough for those few in the pews to hear. They responded with soft tittering and a cough or two.

Father Theodore scowled and prayed for patience. “Marcus, you must tell me what happened.”

“One of the lads, Tony,  from my Ritual and Religion class has been having a bad time with his dad leaving his mum and all, so I’ve been trying to be a mate, sort of help him work it out. We’d just crossed the green after our class, and I was talking with him by the car park when his girl Kate pulls up in her Skoda, with his sister in the back. She says “Hop in; we’re going to Crowne Point.” I thought it was a caff on the High Street so I went along. I was starvin’. I can always tell when Father Martin goes for the extra bacon at brekkie, ‘cause my sarnie was skint of it.” Marcus’ belly rolled over again and he tried not to retch.

“Crowne Point is the overlook by the high cliff, Marcus. It’s where young people go for a cuddle. So I hear.”

“Well, yeah it is! Only I wish you’d told me that before. So there I am, and Sheila – that’s Tony’s sister – she brings out a bottle of cheap gin that the dad left behind when he scarpered. Not a speck of food, mind. So we talked and when the bottle came to me I had some, and then some more each time it came around. I mean I’ve had some of Sister Agnes’ cranberry shrub at Christmas, and the communion wine of course, but this did me in!”

“Did you know it was wrong to get drunk, Marcus?”

“D’ya think? That’s why I’m here.” Father Theodore shook his head. He couldn’t dispute the logic of Marcus’ reply.

“And yet you still drank without limit?”

“No. I had a limit. Well, I mean, I didn’t know three or four rounds would get me drunk, and I didn’t drink any while I was asleep so it was sort of all right until…”

“Until what?”

“Until I woke up, and Sheila was on my lap tryin’ for a snog! So I raised my hand to push her away and it landed smack on her left breast. I was horrified at first, but then I was fascinated too. I’d never touched one before. It was sort of like one of those jelly molds Sister Beatrice makes at Easter, but without the carrot bits.”

_“Marcus!”_

“Any way she looked at me, and I looked at her, and she’s all squeaky and laughing like a loon, and Tony’s shouting and I was about to wet meself.” Marcus sighed. “I apologized all over the place and she just waved her hand like it were nothin'. It was a bloody farce. So I might have had a little more gin just to calm down.”

“Marcus, you drank to the point where you gave away your  free will. You lost your ability to control your actions, and yes, that is a mortal sin. Free will is one of God’s greatest gifts.”

“I’m sorry, Father. I’m truly sorry. I won’t drink that much again.” The sorrow Marcus felt for his offense to God hurt him worse than his head.   

“A pint or a glass once in a while is fine, Marcus, but you have to set a limit beforehand. I absolve you of your sin in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. For this mortal sin you will say your Act of Contrition, two Our Fathers, and five Hail Marys. You will also prepare a homily on the sin of drinking in excess and deliver it at Mass tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Father.” Marcus said his Act of Contrition and then got unsteadily to his feet.  He reached for the velvet exit curtain and hesitated. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you,” he said quietly, and staggered out.

As he emerged from the booth, Father Theodore was waiting. He took in Marcus’ tears and desolate expression and held open his arms. Marcus sank into them and the priest who had saved him from the cruelty of his brethren held him tight and whispered into his ear. “You have never disappointed me Marcus. You have made mistakes, and you’ll make more as you go out into the world.  As long as you repent of them and come home to God and His church, everything will be fine.”

Marcus whispered his thanks, and headed to the pews to say his penance. His legs were still weak, and his belly was roiling – but his heart felt very much lighter.

 

Year Four

“Bless me Father for I have sinned.” As Marcus made the sign of the cross he reconsidered his words. “I am continuing to sin. It has been two weeks since my last confession. I’m only here now because I’m supposed to confess before an exorcism, to ensure a state of grace.” He snorted bitterly. “Yeah, well. That’s not gonna happen, right? ‘Cause I’m not _heartily sorry_ , am I?” Marcus had requested a personal confession outside of the normal hours and it had been scheduled in the clergy office. He suspected it was because he needed more spiritual guidance than a brief stint in the public box would allow.

Father Andrew knew what had incited Marcus’ present state of mind. It had been in the papers and was a subject of discussion amongst the local clergy.  The horrific crime had shaken the beliefs of many of the town’s residents, no matter what their religion, and Marcus had been hard hit. The priests of their parish had all agreed that this was a dangerous time for the young man. Considering his childhood exposure to both violence and abuse they had called upon the services of the Cambridge-trained psychologist who had joined the clergy four months ago.

He needed to guide Marcus through his crisis of faith gently, not only for the salvation of his immortal soul but for his mental health as well. “You’re continuing to sin, Marcus? What sin is that?” The two men sat chair to chair in the stuffy room, away from prying ears. “Consider this as sacred and confidential as any other confession Marcus. Please speak freely.”

“Blasphemy. I’ve committed blasphemy, and I’ll do it again. I can’t get this… this _hate_ out of me. Not sure I want to.” Marcus hands were shaking, and his jaw was clenched. “I won’t be fit for the exorcism tomorrow. Ain’t right for me to try.”

Father Andrew nodded in agreement. “Father Samuel is stepping in for you, Marcus. We’re all here to help you through this.”

“It’s the unpardonable sin, Father. I can’t be forgiven. I can’t be helped.” Marcus’ voice was hollow and without emotion. “I almost wish I’d stopped believing, but He’s still there, I still feel His touch and I wish He’d stop whispering the damn thirty-fourth Psalm in the back of my head and be quiet. I don’t care what he has to say anymore.”

“ _When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears_ \--”

“Stop it.” Marcus spat, his face twisted with anger. Father Andrew continued reciting the Psalm of consolation softly as he slowly made the sign of the cross over Marcus.

“-- _and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near_ \--”

 “I said stop it!” He glared at Father Andrew as he stood and drew closer to Marcus.

“-- _to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit_.” Marcus leapt to his feet and grabbed the priest’s hand, preventing him from making the final arm of the cross.

“ _Shut the fuck up!”_ Marcus screamed. It took him a moment to realize how tightly he was gripping Father Andrew’s hand and he released it. Without apology he backed away and walked over to the window. He leaned his head against the glass and watched the raindrops leave dirty crooked trails as they worked their way to the sill.  “The Psalm’s a lie – the words of men. I knew her, Father. She was a good and faithful girl, and when she cried for help He abandoned her and let them…” He looked up and shouted at the ceiling. “You bastard. _Where were You?_ ”

Father Andrew measured his words and kept his voice steady. “Come back here and sit down, Marcus. I want you to tell me what happened.”

“You know what happened. Everyone knows what happened.”

“I want you to tell me in your own words. Please, come here and tell me about Angela and Graham.” Marcus slowly walked back and sat down again.

“Angela was my friend. I think maybe she was the first friend I ever had outside this church.” Marcus smiled sadly. “She was sweet on me, you know. We’d be in class together and she’d smile and bat her eyelashes and …” His voice broke, and he swallowed. “She always smelled like roses. She even asked me to a dance once. Sometimes  I wish I hadn’t said no.”

“So you never dated her?”

“No. Nothing more than lunch in the campus canteen, or a study hour in McClellen Hall.  We’d end up talking the day away. That girl can… could… talk the handle off a tea pot.” Marcus smile sadly at the memory. “We went out as part of a group, you know? To a dance, or a film, or for a pint at the local. Graham joined us a few times –he was a friend of Tony’s and that’s how Angela met him. They all knew I was serious about the seminary, I never made a secret of that. Most of my spare time I’m studying, or off in the cellars with an exorcism, so it’s not like I spent a lot of time with...”

Marcus scrubbed his hand over his face and began to tremble. “If I had made the time for her, if she’d been out with me that night instead of off with Graham…” His voice rose and he began pounding the arm of the chair for emphasis “I should have _been_ there, I could have _done_ something. Those _bastards_ those _bastards_ those _fucking bastards_ \--” His words caught in his throat, strangled him, and became a keening wail.  

Father Andrew reached out and squeezed Marcus’ shoulder.  The sooner he could associate the evil done to his friends as the work of Satan, the sooner he could begin rebuilding his relationship with God and work through the stages of grief. “Tell me what happened, Marcus.” Graham had lived long enough to tell his story to the first responders and police. Angela’s cousin had been able to fill in the rest. It had all been published in graphic detail in the daily rags.

“Please, no.” Marcus’ face was twisted with grief and anger.

“Start at the beginning and tell me.”

“They drove down to Leeds. Angela’s cousin had a birthday do Friday night. Saturday night they went clubbing. The cousin was tired so she went home. She said when she left they were still dancing.”  According to Graham he and Angela had left about ninety minutes later. As they walked around the corner to hail a cab they’d been jumped by a gang of four men and dragged into an alley.

“They beat Graham ‘til he was half dead and then hog tied him with his own belt. They made him watch.” Marcus leaned over and covered his eyes with his hands as if to block out the images his imagination was creating. “Oh, Angela.”

“What did Graham see, Marcus?” Father Andrew spoke gently. He knew it was agonizing for the young man to review these horrific events. He moved his chair until it was adjacent to the other. “I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere, take your time.” Marcus kept his head bowed, and the priest laid one hand on his back just below his nape. He bowed his own head and listened carefully.

Marcus repeated what Graham had told the police: Angela had been viciously beaten as well, and then gang raped. Afterwards one of the men had pulled out a knife and stabbed her repeatedly. It was only then that they had turned their attention back to Graham. When they heard sirens they stabbed him three times before running away. Unfortunately one of the deeper wounds had been fatal and he had died on the way to hospital. Angela had died in the alley before help arrived.

“He said when they beat her she was screaming. He heard her crying out ‘Please God,’ and ‘God help me,’ over and over. Then one of ‘em told her to shut up and put a hand over her mouth. He kept it there until it was his turn to…”  Marcus sat upright, and began to sob openly. “Graham didn’t hear her again, not even when they were using the knife.”  Marcus turned toward the counselor. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face was set in anger. “I knew her, Father. She was a believer, and a church goer. She trusted God, she loved Him, and when she needed Him most He turned away.”

Father Andrew put his arm around Marcus and rubbed soft circles on his back as sobs shook his body. He couldn’t count the number of times he had been asked why God allows bad things to happen to good people.  He had asked the same question when his younger brother had died, after his bicycle had been hit by a drunk driver. Even the Savior had asked it of His Father.

“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani.” Father Andrew murmured Christ’s anguished cry in Aramaic as he handed Marcus the box of tissues from his desk. “Our Savior felt abandoned by His Father on the cross. No angels were sent to help Him. No bolts of lightning came from the hand of God to smite His executioners. He endured the agonies of the crucifixion for us, and for the forgiveness of our sins.”

“Father, I have put my life in God’s hands since I was a small child. I’ve not lost my faith, but I don’t know as I’ll ever understand, or forgive Him when He lets things like this happen. How can I be absolved of the sin of blasphemy if I’m not able to accept His will?”

“Marcus, you must remember that evil such as this doesn’t exist to serve God’s purpose. It exists for the pleasure of Lucifer, at the hands of those who by their free will have chosen to commit these grievous sins.  On the day of reckoning they will be judged by Him. In the meantime we are often left to ask questions for which there are no answers.” Father Andrew smiled gently at Marcus. “In this case, though, we may have an answer.”

Marcus shook his head, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“Did you read this morning’s paper?”

“No. I’ve tried to stay away the last few days. It’s too much.” The priest walked over to his desk and brought the paper back to Marcus. It was folded open to an article about the murders; Angela’s cause of death had been determined to be suffocation by the medical examiner. Marcus was perplexed. “That can’t be right – she was stabbed!”

“Yes, but remember, Graham said one of them held his hand over her mouth. He’d been badly beaten. If his eyes were swollen he may not have seen --”

“The hand was over her nose as well. It also says Angela’s knife wounds occurred post mortem.”  Marcus looked at the counselor with something akin to wonder. “God took her early on to stop her from suffering any more.”

“We will never know for certain, Marcus, whether that was an act of our merciful God, or simply a miscalculation by a depraved man. I choose to believe the former, and be thankful.” Marcus nodded his head in agreement, too choked up to speak. “I’ll need to see you weekly for grief counseling. We can work around your class schedule. And for your reparations, you will attend First Friday Devotions in order to restore your state of grace and as penance for your blasphemy. You will also say the Rosary of the Holy Wounds.”

“Thank you, Father Andrew.” Marcus felt a wave of gratitude and relief wash over him that left him feeling somewhat weak.  He stood and they shook hands. “I still feel doubt, and anger, because like you said – we can’t know for certain. How do I begin to overcome that?”

“Marcus, you’re grieving, and – much as you’d like to think otherwise – you are an imperfect being. I expect that you’ll still struggle. The grief counseling will help. Turn to God for answers, and for comfort. Try to let His voice guide you, and His love soothe you.” He went to the book case and handed Marcus a well-worn copy of the Holy Hour of Reparations. “Here, you’ve an hour before dinner. Might as well get started.”

Father Andrew heard Marcus’ Act of Contrition, and sent him on his way to the nave. He sat back down at his desk and sighed. He was concerned about the young exorcist. He’d read through his records and was familiar with his background. Marcus had been through hell and back as a child. He tended to see everything in black or white, and had a righteous anger that was quick to rise.  He had also, up until now, exhibited an unwavering faith and trust in the Lord. It had served him well as a conduit for the power and redemptive grace of the exorcism ritual.

Now a kernel of doubt had been planted regarding God’s grace and mercy. It was a seed that took root in everyone from time to time, especially when tragedy or misfortune struck, but Marcus could not afford even the smallest of compromise. His belief that God’s voice held truth, and his faith that God’s power flowed through him during an exorcism was critical to saving the soul – or even the life – of the possessed.

Marcus was four months into his final year of college. Father Andrew crossed himself and prayed that with God’s help Marcus’ faith would be strengthened, and his call to the priesthood would remain inviolate.  He prayed that Marcus would find a peaceful heart and overcome his grief. He prayed for the repose of the souls of Angela Bastamente and Graham Purvis. And he prayed that God would render His judgment and unleash His wrath upon the bastards who had murdered them.

 

 

 

 


End file.
